There was a loud bang as a gunshot echoed through the Grove, startling the residents nearby as well as the wildlife. Etaire stumbled back as he saw white, the pain numbing his mind.
He felt the ground before he had a chance to open his eyes, his nose stinging as he groaned. So this was pain, he realized, pushing himself up by the elbows. It consumed his mind, though it was already starting to become a dull ache. Eyes still closed, he felt the cold seeping into him, the snowflakes melting onto his bare back. He blinked blearily, startled when he realized someone before him.
“Luckily your face isn’t scarred.”
Teal – deep turquoise eyes and a smile looked down at him.
“That would have been a shame.”
And then there was a laugh: quietly gentle, surely genuine.
Etaire’s eyes were wide as a thumb brushed his cheek, feeling the warmth that rid him of the grains of dirt. There was a rustling of leaves as he was pulled to his feet, the cold attacking him anew with twice the vigor. But his hands were warm, as warm as his smile, though that did little to stop the chill that wrapped around the rest of Etaire’s body.
Voices he had overlooked in his head came back in full force, some murmuring, some unintelligible, some just too loud, before he squeezed his eyes shut to concentrate. “It’s...” Etaire, Etaire, Etaire, Etaire, they whispered all at once, though not all at the same time. He clutched his head, fingers pulling at his leaves so that he could concentrate on the pain instead. “Etaire,” he finally said. “I’m Etaire.” His head was pounding, loading him with information and voices as he panicked. At a loss of what to do, he stared at the person before him, hoping he would have the answers.
“Welcome to Caledon, Etaire. I’m Speirith.”
Speirith. Etaire rolled the name around in his head, calming down as the voices quieted.
“Why are you so warm?” He blurted out, honestly curious. Etaire stared at Speirith’s hands as if that itself would solve the mystery. He gasped as fire flared to life around the older’s wrists, dancing with the wind before vanishing into smoke.
“It’s because I’m an elementalist,” he vaguely heard, still in simple awe.
He didn’t realize he was being guided away until a female warden was handing him clothes, beckoning him along. Etaire followed behind hesitantly, glancing back at Speirith because everything was foreign and the only comfort he had was Speirith’s presence.
“I’ll see you around,” the elementalist said with a small smile, giving Etaire a reassuring nod.
Relief flooded him before he tried to smile back, jogging to catch up with the warden who began to lead him to a place called the Grove.
He hated the Grove, full of idealistic dreamers irritating him alongside the pounding in the back of his head as he tried in vain to block out the voices. He received alarmed glances as he continued to walk towards the mender’s hut, the luminescence powered lanterns seeming brighter than usual.
Etaire managed to drag himself inside before he slumped against the wall, his eyes becoming lidded of their own accord. His head felt strangely light as he focused on breathing, his grip on the bullet wound slackening.
The murmurs of menders as they tended to the wounded and ill buzzed around his head, enticing him to close his eyes and slip off into darkness.
He never forgot that voice, but it couldn’t be him.
He snapped his fingers, trying to focus on generating enough friction to create a spark before his stomach dropped. His fingers were raw and his wrists were still as cool as ever. He didn’t want to believe it – that he didn’t have what it took to be an elementalist like Speirith.
Speirith, who was everything he wanted to be.
Elementalist training classes were done for the day, which meant Etaire should have been resting, eating, or sleeping, late as it was. He had attended two classes and he still couldn’t form a spark while the rest of his classmates could, and of course, he didn’t want to be left behind. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t trying hard enough, so he couldn’t understand what he was doing wrong.
Just as he was going to try again, there was a knock at the door that startled him up into a sitting position.
“Yes? How can I help you—?”
Etaire was greeted with a smile and a small wave, though the action was hesitant. “So you were staying here for the time being.” Speirith’s eyes landed on the open books, scattered along the floor. “I heard about the elementalist training,” he continued softly.
“I – I just don’t understand,” Etaire huffed, picking a book off the floor before flipping through its pages. “Everyone else can do it just fine and I can’t even start a spark!” His voice had risen towards the end of his sentence, his breathing harsh and irregular. “What am I doing wrong?” He whispered, shoulders slumping.
There was a pause as the shadow in the doorway shifted, quietly contemplating. “For an elementalist, there should be one element out of the four that calls to you.” Etaire could hear the soft crackle of flames disintegrate into the sound of rushing water. “For me, it was water – healing. You have to…” Speirith trailed off, rubbing the side of his face as he thought. “Connect to the element,” he finished unhelpfully. “I’m sorry,” he tried to smile, though it was more sheepish than anything, “It’s been so long that I can’t quite describe it.”
“Oh,” Etaire said in reply, feeling his hopes sinking once again.
Speirith noticed the younger’s expression before he looked away, casually mentioning, “Everyone thought I was going to be affiliated with necromancy. It must have been my leaves.” His eyes flicked back to lock on Etaire’s pale ones, shrugging as if to share an inside joke. “I did try, but in the end I was most suited for the elements.” Carefully stepping between the textbooks, Speirith kneeled in front on Etaire and patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t narrow your prospects before you try everything; you can always come back to the elements if nothing else piques your interest.”
“Alright,” Etaire said sullenly. The term necromancy stood out and he secretly filed it away. That would be the first thing he would try tomorrow.
“Don’t worry,” Speirith grinned, reaching over to pat the top of Etaire’s head lightly. “You’ll still be amazing no matter what you do.”
Not trusting himself to look up only to have his hope drop to his stomach, Etaire stared at the floor as he maneuvered himself into a standing position, staggering slightly. He heard the drip, drip, drip of his sap staining the floor, each drop falling from the tips of his fingers and then the barely audible sigh of the mender before him.
“This way.” The voice was flat, toneless, though it was unmistakably familiar. He heard the steps as the mender walked off, but Etaire couldn’t move, rooted to the spot as he tried to squander his hope. But suddenly, there was a hand on his back and warmth radiating up his spine before he looked up in surprise, finding those same teal eyes on him.
Etaire was seated before he knew it, the mender’s expression still strangely empty as his ears flicked back at someone calling his name.
“Speirith, do you need any help? I’m free to.”
“No thank you,” Speirith looked over his shoulder before looking back, catching sight of the hole through Etaire’s left arm. “You can rest – I can handle this.”
There was a brief thank you before they fell into silence again.
“What happened to you?” Etaire couldn’t help but ask, his eyebrows scrunched in confusion. This wasn’t the Speirith he remembered – this was hardly the kind warden-to-be in his memories.
“What happened to you?” Speirith shot back in that same nonchalant way, his eyes following the permanent scars on Etaire’s face. His thumb brushed the grooves, and Etaire fought the urge to look away with embarrassment burning in his gut. As if sensing his discomfort, Speirith retracted his hand, the warmth fading from Etaire’s cheek. “What a shame.”
As Speirith moved on to lift Etaire’s arm, the words he had heard so long ago echoed in his head, chasing the other voices away. He didn’t even register the pain as Speirith cut the sleeve of his shirt, pulling it away with some difficultly as the old sap had started to dry.
The question startled him out of his reverie before the embarrassment returned, causing him to look anywhere but at the mender. “I shot myself in the arm.”
Speirith raised his eyebrows slightly before starting to heal the hole in Etaire’s arm from the inside. “By accident?” He asked, just for the sake of asking.
The itching sensation was increased tenfold as Etaire grit his teeth. “Unfortunately not.” He swore he heard a snort though when Etaire looked back, Speirith’s face was impassive as usual. “It may be the most stupid thing I have ever done.”
Etaire could almost hear the sarcasm implied, though it was hard to tell with the way Speirith spoke. The pain was duller now, though he still felt lightheaded.
On and on the silence stretched as Etaire tried to stay awake, appreciating the fact that he could actually feel the tips of his fingers now. He idly registered the laughter from outside, the sound of water being splashed about as saplings played in the pond without a care in the world.
“I’ve seen worse,” the mender continued after the long pause, the water that swirled around his wrist slowing to a snail’s pace. He was tired, Etaire realized. “I once had to mend someone who shot himself because his dearheart left him. I told him, ‘I think I can see why she left you’ and apparently, it was the wrong thing to say as he was back the next day, this time with another injury.” His eyes twinkled as the corner of his lips lifted, though when Etaire blinked, the expression was gone, replaced with a neutral look. “You, on the other hand, should have shot both your arms.” When Etaire tilted his head, Speirith continued, “Then you wouldn’t be able to cause any more trouble.”
The mender stepped back, motioning for Etaire to stand up. He couldn’t, however, as he snorted in amusement, and then laughed like he hadn’t laughed in days. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he finally grinned, slipping to his feet.
“I don’t recommend you using that arm for at least three days, minimum.” Turning away, Speirith looked for a sling he could put around Etaire’s arm. “It won’t respond very well for a while, though it will eventually.” He didn’t clarify exactly how long was eventually, but Etaire figured it was his own fault for shooting himself in the arm.
“I should have shot the other guy,” he muttered to himself, though Speirith was close enough to catch it. There was another muffled snort before he yanked Etaire’s head down, looping the sling around the taller’s neck.
“That’s no way to talk,” Speirith said idly, placing Etaire’s arm in the sling. “Are there any other questions you’d like to ask before you leave?”
“Would you please cut my other sleeve?” Etaire asked, nodding at the pink dyed cuff. Without a word, Speirith complied, burning the fabric in his hands before blowing away the ashes. “Thank you. And one more thing.”
The first time he summoned a minion, he had to confess he yelled and climbed over a chair. The minion was small in size, floating with its tendrils flowing behind it. Wide-eyed, Etaire had to admit, necromancy was almost effortless, easy to understand without words. Still, the call and intrigue of the elements never left, leaving him with a thirst to find out more.
And so he continued to study necromancy, excelling in his class while he did research on elementalists in his spare time. Eventually, there were no more books to read on the said subject, and his thirst for knowledge was no closer to being quenched than when he had first started.
So he asked around – where could he learn more about elementalists? Of the world? Of anything and everything that interested him? The answer was clear, though of course he needed to say goodbye.
His mentor, for one, as well as his friends. They were easy enough for him to find, and wished him luck on his journey. Speirith was harder to meet, busy as he was with his warden training. However, he was able to talk to him briefly before he left.
“I’m going to learn more about elemental magic at the Priory,” Etaire smiled, fingers digging into the straps of his backpack. “So I’m here to say goodbye.”
Speirith smiled back, patting Etaire’s shoulder gently. “Don’t forget about your necromancy training, too.”
“I won’t,” Etaire promised before Speirith had to leave as he was called back.
“I think I did well as a necromancer,” Etaire grinned. “Wouldn’t you say?”
Speirith only stared, the only sign of his confusion reflected in his eyes.
The bridge to the Priory wasn’t long, though the trek felt like a lifetime to Etaire. The excitement was bubbling from inside him, leaving him giddy as he quickened his pace. Scholars and Explorers milled about, some rushing with documents in their hands while others had miniature discussions around the hall.
Etaire did his best to dodge out of the way, almost stumbling more than once before he was stopped by a stern looking guard.
“I’m here to join the Priory,” he beamed, adjusting his backpack.
The walk back to the Priory wasn’t long, his rank allowing him to use the gates without much of a question. His arm ached in its sling, jostling slightly as he walked. Etaire’s eyes were dull as he made his way past the commotion in the main hall, ignoring the voices that asked him what had happened before he slipped into his room.
It was quiet, and he realized in relief that the other two were out. Groaning, he carefully made his way upstairs, lying down in bed as he closed his eyes.
He wondered if Speirith would ever remember him.
